


Lucky

by TheShadowPanther



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:38:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShadowPanther/pseuds/TheShadowPanther
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter knows he's lucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta [Cassandra Pierson](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ca_pierson/pseuds/ca_pierson) – who is awesome for holding my hand during the sex scene and for being patient with my nagging. Any mistakes left in this fic are mine to bear.

Harry Potter knows he’s lucky.

He’s alive, has great friends, a job he enjoys, and Neville Longbottom hurrying towards him over the grounds of Hogwarts, his Professor of Herbology robes flapping around his ankles. Neville Longbottom, who is his, and no one else’s. He couldn’t ask for more.

At Neville’s beaming “Harry!” he smiles wanly and lifts his hand in a wave.

“Hey, Nev,” he says, quietly. As Neville stops in front of him, he asks, “Ready to go for the weekend?”

“Merlin, yes, can’t get away from my students fast enough.” Neville’s smile dissolves into a frown. “Are you all right?” he asks. His hand touches Harry’s shoulder, lightly at first.

It’s easier to smile now. “Yeah,” Harry says, leaning subtly into Neville’s hand. He glances at the Whomping Willow nearby, looks away. “Just thinking about my godfather, that’s all.”

Neville looks at him in concern. “You still miss him, don’t you?”

Harry nods. And everyone else, he wants to say, but his throat closes up on him. As if reading his mind, Neville squeezes the back of Harry’s neck, then, when Harry leans in slightly, shifts his grip to hug both of Harry’s shoulders.

In Neville’s embrace, supported by his body, Harry feels grief’s cold fingers slip from his shoulders to be replaced by Neville’s warmth. Neville smells earthy, even a little musky, and Harry loves it. This is the smell that tells him he is all right, that he can relax.

Here, just like this, in Neville’s arms, he doesn’t have to pretend he is anything other than Harry, who has human feelings and human needs. A large part of it is the fact that he thinks Neville will hold him as long as he wants without pushing him for details, which is more than anyone else gives him.

“Thanks, Neville,” he says after a long moment, when nothing other than warmth fills him. He draws back to smile up at Neville.

“You’re welcome, Harry,” Neville says, looking as content as Harry feels. He holds Harry a moment longer, then moves away.

Harry straightens with a sigh. He doesn’t get hugs often. More likely he’ll get claps on the shoulder from Ron, or friendly hugs from Hermione, but those don’t count. The only hugs he gets that might count are Mrs Weasley’s, but those don’t feel comfortable, not like Neville’s.

Neville’s hand closes around his and squeezes. “All right?” Neville asks.

“All right,.” Harry says, grinning.

Neville grins back, and the two of them stand there smiling at each other like a pair of lovelorn teenagers.

Clearing his throat to try to regain his dignity, Harry gestures to the Hogwarts lake with his free hand. “Shall we?”

Neville turns rueful. “Yeah, before my students get here and coo at us again.” He makes a face.

Harry shudders as they set off around the lake. “Don’t joke about that,” he says, casting a look over his shoulder. He catches Neville’s amused glance at him. “Honestly, do you know how many times I get teased at work alone? Twenty times a day, at least. That’s not counting Ron, Hermione, or George, who drops by every day just for that. I swear people are way too interested in my love life. Don’t they have anything better to do with their lives?”

He draws breath to say more, but Neville is laughing. Before Harry can ask what’s funny, Neville says, “You’re the Chosen One, Harry. People will always be interested in your love life.”

Harry groans. “I wish they’d all leave me alone,” he says, kicking at the ground. He’s so tired of it all: the “adoration,” the reporters in his face, the fan mail, even offers of marriage! From people he doesn’t know! Everywhere he goes, it’s like that. Mobs of people come together, eager to have a look at the hero of the wizarding world as if he is an exhibit in the Scamander Public Zoo.

Neville’s hand on his arm brings him out of his reverie. He looks up to see Neville with a sympathetic expression that does as much to soothe as the thumb rubbing over his knuckles.

He opens his mouth to apologize for ranting, but it dies on his lips when he realizes that Neville is close. Very close. “Hi,” he says, instead, swaying closer.

Neville’s smile warms and deepens. Harry flicks his eyes to Neville’s mouth, then up to the light blue eyes, which darken as they focus on him.

Heat pools in Harry’s stomach, moves down into his groin. He’s pressing up against Neville and tilting his head for the kiss when a burst of laughter nearby makes them jump.

Drawing back, they look over to see a group of older Slytherins passing by, their ties crooked or pulled off. At Neville’s sigh, Harry looks up to see him shaking his head.

“Just my luck,” he says. “I spend all week fending off the mishaps of my students, and then I can’t get a proper kiss for my hard work.” He sighs dramatically.

Harry laughs at Neville’s theatrics. “Poor Neville,” he says. “So underappreciated.”

“I am,” Neville says soberly. His straight face cracks a moment later when he puts his arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Except for you, of course.”

Harry has no answer to that except another smile. He hopes Neville doesn’t take it personally, but it’s hard for him to put his feelings for Neville into words. It isn’t that he doesn’t care, but no words come that can express them without making him feeling stupid. He has made the effort, of course, but he has to work up to it. He envies Neville his ability to casually speak his affection.

Rather than make an idiot of himself, he loops his arm around Neville’s waist and squeezes. “Yeah,” he says quietly, not meeting Neville’s eyes. Of course, then he can’t resist sneaking a peek upwards.

Neville is smiling affectionately, making Harry’s cheeks burn. He doesn’t say anything, only moves into Harry’s arm.

A thrill goes through Harry at that. Sure, he likes it when Neville holds him, but he loves it when he gets to touch Neville and have him respond. No matter how long they have been together, the electric feeling never fails to go up his spine whenever Neville shows that he likes Harry’s caresses.

The best part, in Harry’s opinion, is the implicit permission he has to touch him anytime, whether out in public or when they’re alone. That makes him shiver.

Clearing his throat in an effort to distract himself, Harry says, “What mishaps did you have today?”

“Oh, Merlin, don’t get me started.” Neville groans. “Andrew Brodgers, that Ravenclaw third year I’ve told you about before, he got tangled up with a Helgarum Hugger Vine today. I have no idea how he did it. We weren’t even working on Helgarum Vines. He must have wandered off into the restricted area of the greenhouse. By the time I knew he wasn’t where he was supposed to be, Brodgers was completely encased in the Vine and being rocked back and forth like a baby. It took an hour to get him out.”

“How many points did you take away?” Harry asks with a grin.

“Twenty. I was very cross with Brodgers by the end. He kept moving about and making the extraction worse, no matter how many times I told him to stay still and relax. I kind of lost my temper.”

Neville looks mournful, so Harry stifles his smile. Instead, he rubs Neville’s back. “S’all right,” Harry says. “We all do that. Least you’re not like me, bringing the house down with all the yelling.”

Snorting, Neville cracks a slight smile. It fades a moment later. “It’s just…D’you think that twenty was too much?”

Tearing himself from the sight of Neville biting his lip, Harry tries to remember what they were talking about. “Err,” he says. “No. No, twenty wasn’t too much. ’Sides,” he adds, inspired, “you can always make it up to them on Monday.”

The look of gratitude Neville gets means Harry’s said the right thing. “I can do that,” says Neville happily. His arm comes up around Harry’s shoulders in a half-hug, stays there as Neville asks, “What about you? How was your visit with Hermione at the Ministry?”

“It was good,” Harry says as they come into sight of the Hogwarts gates. “Hermione’s still shaking things up there, still forcing the Ministry to face ugly truths and fix them.”

Neville looks half-amused, half-wary. “Is she still trying to make the Wolfsbane Potion more accessible to werewolves?”

Harry knows exactly how Neville feels. Hermione is a force of nature at her best. “Yeah. She was complaining that most of the work is convincing the Potions Masters to make it. Apparently not a lot of them are willing to get close enough to a werewolf to do it. There was a lot of expansive gesturing.” Harry chuckles.

“Sounds like she’s happy,” Neville says.

“She is,” Harry nods. “She’s also dragging me to a Ministry function next weekend to fundraise for it.”

Laughing, Neville pats Harry’s shoulder. “No rest for the wickedly heroic.”

“Oh, thanks, Neville,” Harry says as they come into sight of the Hogwarts gates. “Maybe I should take you with me, make you suffer, too.”

Harry sniggers as Neville splutters. “Teach you to laugh at me,” he says to Neville’s dismayed expression. “Don’t forget you’re a hero, too. You’re just less accessible than I am.”

“Too right.” Neville draws his wand and waves it at the gates, which swing open without a sound.

As they pass through, Harry remembers the other part of his visit. “Oh, yeah, Hermione wasn’t the only one I saw at the Ministry. Susan Bones appeared just as I was leaving.”

“Oh, how is she doing? Last I heard she was following in her aunt’s footsteps in the DMLE.” Neville closes the gates with a swish of his wand.

“Yeah,” Harry says, reaching for Neville’s hand. “She said that’s what her aunt would have wanted. We actually had a nice conversation for a bit, then it got awkward.”

“Awkward?” Neville asks.

“Yeah, she was staring at me like she was expecting something.” Harry turns to gather Neville into his arms for Apparition, gets distracted by the heft of Neville plastered against him. It’s a moment before he remembers what he was doing.

“Not here,” Harry says to Neville’s knowing smirk. “Wait until we get there.”

“All right,” says Neville, his eyes dancing. Harry narrows his eyes at him, but can’t stop the grin widening across his face.

“Ready?” he asks.

At Neville’s nod, Harry imagines a garden. Not a big garden, big enough to set up a hammock in. He thinks of the wrought-iron gate that swings inside without his touch, handy for when Harry’s arms are full of groceries, and framed on both sides by hedges. The hedges remind Harry of Aunt Petunia, because she insisted that every British garden needed one. The thought was disquieting at first, but Harry has grown used to it. Now it amuses him to think of her reaction, especially in contrast with the garden’s contents. Then, as a final touch, the Ever-Flowering Begonias waving cheerfully at him rain or shine across the top of the hedge, and Harry turns on his heel, bringing Neville with him. Into the compressing void of Apparition they step…

…to land where he envisioned, the back gate entrance of Number Twenty-six, Carlyle Court.

There’s a flash of colour down the alleyway behind Number Twenty-six, a person raising her head upon their appearance. Their neighbour, Mrs Gardener, a short, squat woman with a propensity for mobcaps, adopts a crafty expression and starts towards them, much to Harry and Neville’s dismay.

“Quick, get in.” Harry pushes Neville past the gate, which opens at their approach. The plaque is old and nearly worn-off: BEWARE OF CRUP. Hermione is always after him to touch it up, but Harry thinks it’s charming. The plaque is also the keystone to the privacy wards on Number Twenty-six, which seal into place as the gate closes after them.

“Made it,” Harry says, sharing a relieved look with Neville.

“Thank goodness. Mrs Gardener is brutal.” Neville shakes his head.

Harry looks at him incredulously. “You think she’s brutal, you only have to answer her questions about Muggle gardening. I’m the one who has Mr Gardener glaring at him while his daughter chases me all about the room! Something you could help out with more, y’know.”

“I can’t! Mrs Gardener never lets me get away for one second! She’s got a grip like a Devil’s Snare, she does!”

They laugh. Harry then points out, “She’s better than the paparazzi, though.”

Neville shudders. “Loads. I’m glad you had this house made Unplottable, else we’d never be able to get away here otherwise.” He looks around at the garden and the cottage and smiles. “Worth it for this, though.”

Harry looks where Neville does. The dozens of plants swaying in the breeze have Neville’s stamp on them, from the Fanged Geraniums Harry sees nearby to the Giant Orchid waving its fronds next to the crooked back stairs of the cottage. Harry has his contributions here and there, including a new plant he planted two days ago on the advice of Andromeda Tonks. Smiling to himself, he anticipates Neville’s reaction to it.

“Yeah,” Harry says fondly in response to Neville. He takes a deep breath of the flora of Number Twenty-six’s garden, smiles. Harry is home.

They stand and bask in the garden, enjoying the breeze without saying anything. Then Neville turns to Harry and takes up his hand. “You didn’t tell me how your run-in with Susan Bones ended.”

“Oh, come on, you can’t possibly be interested…” Harry trails off at the look on Neville’s face, soft and yearning, and at the way Neville is running his fingers over Harry’s inner arm. A thought occurs to him that Neville doesn’t want this moment to end, although they are alone and nothing will intrude in on their time together.

Feeling the smile tug at the corners of his lips, Harry gives in to Neville’s unspoken request and puts his hand on the small of Neville’s back. Immediately Neville turns and leans on Harry so that they are front-to-front, and puts his arms around Harry’s neck. The frisson up Harry’s spine at the contact is accompanied by a warm feeling spreading in his stomach, which does funny things to his knees.

“Right,” he says, knowing from Neville’s smile that he has seen Harry’s reaction. “Where was I? Oh, yeah, the Ministry. So Susan Bones,” he begins, joining his other hand with its mate on Neville’s back, “she’s looking at me with this look, like she’s expecting me to do something. Of course I have no clue what she wants, so we stand there like a pair of dumbstruck Fwoopers for an age before she finally says goodbye.”

“What did she want?” Neville asks, eyebrows rising curiously.

“Buggered if I know!” Harry throws up his hands without removing them from around Neville.

Neville laughs. Harry savours the sound, looking at the way the laughter lights Neville’s face, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the curve of his mouth and the flash of his teeth. Harry thinks, not for the first time, that Neville is handsome like this, with his dirty-blond hair and broad shoulders, his solid frame and his comfortable air, as if all is right with his world, and no one can budge it.

Harry knows this is not true, that Neville has and has had his fair share of problems after the war, but in this moment, his blue eyes warm and his body relaxed against Harry’s, Neville could not be anything else but striking.

He’s lucky, Harry thinks, that Neville decided Harry is someone worth pursuing.

He realizes that neither of them is speaking anymore. Neville is still smiling, but the smile has changed back to the one at Hogwarts, the one that flips Harry’s insides and sets them sizzling.

Harry’s cheeks warm. Neville chuckles and thumbs Harry’s nape, making Harry shiver.

“Come on,” Neville says, his breath barely carrying over the space between them. “We’d better get inside before Kreacher comes out to force-feed us.”

Harry jolts. He’d forgotten, as involved as he is, where they are. “Yeah,” he says, blinking his way out of his daze. Come to think of it, his stomach does feel pinched.

Reluctantly letting Neville go, Harry turns to go up the path through the middle of the garden. He asks, “How do you feel about eating outside today? It’s a nice day for it.” When Harry doesn’t get a response by the time he reaches the crooked stairway that leads to the red back door, he stops, turns back, says “Neville?”

Instead of following Harry, Neville has crossed over to the right wall, where the new plant is fluttering its tendrils of green. “Harry,” he says excitedly, squatting down to better see it. “Harry, you’ve got a Roaring Dragon flower here! It’s one of the most challenging flowers to breed for its ability to warn you if any strange people approach! This is amazing!”

Harry grins at Neville’s delight. As he listens to Neville exclaim over the Roaring Dragon, he suspects that Neville will be spending most of his time this weekend in a greenhouse obsessing over trying to cross-pollinate the flower. As this is the reaction, more or less, Harry was expecting, he only has a fond smile and a tiny sigh at the prospect.

Still, he can’t help but remember that Neville had neglected to look at the garden in favour of him, Harry. Neville, who is crooning to the Roaring Dragon as it tries to trap his fingers in its tendrils, prefers to be with Harry and listen to a silly tale about Susan Bones over making the rounds of the garden.

Feeling ten feet tall, he calls out, “Don’t mess up the garden, Nev!” and goes up the stairs to the back door.

He opens the back door to Number Twenty-six onto a mudroom, carefully so that it doesn’t hit the coat rack on the far wall. The door has enough scratches on it, it doesn’t need any more. As he takes off his cloak and robe, Harry sniffs the air; there’s a wonderful aroma of cooking food which sets Harry’s stomach rumbling. He stays in the mudroom only long enough to toss the cloak and robe on the coat rack and his shoes onto the pile next to it, before following his nose into the kitchen next door.

Kreacher is there, putting a huge pot onto the stove. The huge pot goes next to a spitting skillet and another, smaller pot with a handle and a lid on top.

Sniffing appreciatively, Harry skirts around the table in the middle of the kitchen and over to the stove, hoping to discover the source of the smell.

“Master Harry is home,” Kreacher croaks upon seeing him.

“Hi, Kreacher,” Harry greets happily. “Smells good. What’s for dinner?”

“Lasagne, Master.” Kreacher suffers Harry to look in the skillet – browning meat – and the huge pot – water – before chivvying Harry to sit at the table. This achieved, Kreacher folds his hands together and asks, “Does Master want some tea?”

“Yeah, that’d be great, Kreacher,” Harry says, sitting where Kreacher points. “Oh, make some for Neville, too, please. He’ll want to have one when he comes in.”

Kreacher bobs his head. “Yes, Master.”

Harry is sipping at his tea and looking out the front window overlooking the cars passing by when Neville clatters in.

“Harry!” he exclaims, his face all delight. “That Roaring Dragon Flower is amazing! Where did you get it? Oh, and the Giant Orchid is doing well – I gave it some extra prodding just to be sure, and oh! I, err, might have messed up the mulching a bit. As you can see, I got a bit dirty in the process.”

Harry bites back a laugh. A bit dirty nothing; Neville is a sight. Dirt streaks across his face, powders his hair, covers his hands, and fouls his clothes. He has taken off his robe and shoes, but that leaves his shirt and trousers all over mulch and dirt. They bear signs of being patted at, but Harry suspects that made it worse, not better.

“You look like you were making mudpies,” Harry says, grinning. He comes forward to try a Cleaning Charm, but this only serves to ingratiate the dirt further into Neville’s clothes.

“Ah, well,” Harry says, putting his wand back. “We can ask Kreacher to clean them for you.”

“Kreacher will clean them, Master Harry,” Kreacher agrees, swivelling his head from the stove.

“What’ll I wear in the meantime?” Neville asks, pulling at his shirt in dismay.

“You’ve got some clothes here that you brought over last time we got away, remember?”

Neville blinks. “Oh, yeah. Thanks, Harry.” He gives Harry a peck, then bounds over to the two doors in the final wall of the kitchen. Harry watches Neville open the rightmost door and leap up the stairs revealed behind it. Chuckling, he shakes his head, reaches for his teacup, and turns to Kreacher.

Swallowing his sip of tea, he asks, “How goes Grimmauld Place, Kreacher? Were you able to take a look at that leak in the attic?”

“Yes, Master Harry. It is all fixed, Kreacher is making sure of it. Kreacher is checking the other parts of The House, but Kreacher is finding no more leaks.” Kreacher comes away from the stove to stand in front of Harry, wringing his long fingers.

Smiling reassuringly, Harry says, “Good job, Kreacher. What about here? Everything all right here?” Harry’s gesture takes in the entirety of Number Twenty-six.

“Yes, Master,” Kreacher sniffs, to Harry’s grin. Kreacher has made of his opinion of Number Twenty-six in comparison to Grimmauld Place perfectly clear. Not that that has stopped Harry from coming here.

Harry then remembers something. “Oh, yeah, Teddy is coming over tomorrow. Would you cook one of his favourites for dinner?”

“Master Teddy?” At these two words, Kreacher perks up: his ears lift until they’re standing on end, his protuberant eyes bulge even more, and the wringing gets faster until Kreacher’s fingers are a blur. “Oh, Kreacher will make his very favourite, Master Harry, his very favourite! Kreacher will make up his bed, oh yes, and have everything perfect for Master Teddy!”

“I wouldn’t have expected anything less,” Harry laughs. He sets his teacup down, watches it disappear as Kreacher whisks it away.

The huge pot whistles then, sending him Kreacher scrambling over to it.

While Kreacher deals with the pot, Harry looks over at Neville’s untouched teacup. “Huh, Neville hasn’t come down for his tea yet. I’ll go see what’s holding him up.”

Crossing to the rightmost door, Harry passes through and up the stairs to see where his boyfriend has gone.

He finds Neville, looking much cleaner, in the sitting room, gazing out of the enormous enchanted window that covers the entire far wall. It is the feature that sold Harry on this place, with the mountains rising beyond the neighbouring houses in Carlyle Court, an addition courtesy of the wizards who lived at Number Twenty-Six before. Enchanted or not, it is breath-taking.

“Hey,” Harry says, crossing the room to join Neville. As he goes, he dodges around an end table, two striped chairs, a coffee table, a loveseat, and a Wizarding Wireless.

“Oh, hey,” Neville says, turning to smile at Harry. “Sorry, I got distracted by the view.”

Whatever his response to that is, Harry forgets it when he gets a good look at what Neville is wearing. He’s wearing the jeans they keep for gardening, faded and worn through in places, and tight about his arse. They’re soft as Harry runs his hands up them, the hole in Neville’s thigh catching at his fingers to glance over the skin beneath. Harry has a better idea, though. He trails his hands around to Neville’s arse, cupping it briefly, then up to slide into the back pockets, where there’s another hole, just in the right place, to tease at with one of his fingers.

Judging by Neville’s smirk, he knows exactly what effect Neville in these jeans have on Harry. But that is not all.

“‘Herbologists do it better’?” Harry says, eying the logo across Neville’s deep green shirt. “And what is it that Herbologists do better, Nev? Care to show me?”

Neville’s grin is sly, his hands already traveling down Harry’s back. His voice deepens when he says, “Let’s put it this way.” They’re so close that Harry can feel Neville’s heart beating, see the flecks in Neville’s eyes as he continues, “I never did get my proper kiss.”

Harry’s laugh is swallowed by Neville’s mouth coming down on his. Squeezing Neville’s arse, he smiles into the kiss at the moan it evokes. Smiling back, Neville takes one hand from Harry’s back and trails it down Harry’s chest. Harry’s breath catches and he lets go of Neville's arse in favour of sliding one hand under Neville's t-shirt and the other down the back of the jeans.

Harry catches his breath for other reasons. “No pants,” he chuckles into Neville's mouth. Neville smiles, presses a kiss to Harry's bottom lip, then steps back to pull his shirt over his head.

“Good idea,” Harry says, starting on the buttons of his shirt. Neville helps him, tangling their fingers together as often as getting the buttons open, and kissing him as they go. Then Harry's shirt is off, and they're chest-to-chest again, only it feels better, loads better, skin-on-skin.

This time when they kiss, Harry traces his tongue along Neville’s upper lip. With a moan, Neville opens his mouth to let him in and sucks as his eyes flutter shut. The sensation, and the sight, goes straight to Harry’s groin. Groaning, Harry turns them both and presses Neville against the window.

“Harry,” Neville says unsteadily as Harry mouths down his neck. His hand comes up to thread into Harry’s hair; this feels so good that Harry hums and places a light kiss on the join of Neville’s neck and shoulder. Neville murmurs and tilts his head to give Harry more access. Harry places another kiss, then cups his hand to Neville’s neck on its other side and begins to suck. The taste that explodes onto his tongue is salty, but more than that it tastes like Neville, musky and familiar, and Neville in any form is impossible for Harry to resist.

Underneath him, Neville’s breath hitches and his hand pushes down on Harry’s head. In answer, Harry sucks harder for a moment, then licks the hickey to soothe, before leaning back to examine it bright red against Neville’s neck.

“Come here, you,” Neville laughs, bringing Harry in for a light kiss. “Have to get that smug expression off your face,” he adds, making Harry laugh.

“You wish,” Harry says, propping his hand on the window. “You’re mine. I’ll be smug all I want.”

Smirking, Neville kisses him. Harry’s all set to get back to snogging, but Neville draws back. He darts in with another one before Harry does more than open his mouth, but he doesn’t let Harry deepen the kiss. Frowning, Harry tries again, only for the same result to happen. He stares at Neville, whose smirk broadens.

“What are you—” Neville doesn’t let Harry finish that either, adding a lick this time as he withdraws. With a noise of deep complaint, Harry takes Neville by the chin and kisses him properly.

Neville’s smiling in triumph when they kiss breaks, and that’s when Harry suspects Neville’s game. Neville says, “You’re mine, too, y’know,” then descends.

Harry can only “Mmhmm” in agreement. That seems to be enough for Neville, who wraps his arms around Harry and pulls him closer, until they are as close as they can get.

Arranged this way, they lose several minutes. Neville’s hands leave Harry’s back to roam all over him, leaving no inch of his bare skin untraveled, and straying to knead at his arse. Grunting, Harry starts to rock against Neville, kissing harder for the heat coiling in his groin.

It doesn’t seem possible that it could get better than this, but it can, and it will.

“Nev,” Harry says, drawing back. Neville chases after him, blindly seeking out Harry’s mouth and wrapping a hand around the small of his back.

“Mm.” Harry’s eyes close as Neville licks along the roof of his mouth. His hands find Neville’s hips and stroke, moving downwards and bumping into the waistband of Neville’s jeans. That reminds him.

“Nev.”

“Mmn?” Neville gives Harry’s lip a last nibble, then reluctantly draws back. His eyes open slowly, the dazed expression in them focusing on Harry after a moment. Harry can’t resist smoothing his hand against Neville’s cheek, his heart squeezing when Neville leans into it.

“Couch,” he says, stepping back out of Neville’s restraining hand. “And then we can get those jeans off.”

“Mmn. That sounds good,” Neville rasps. His step forward is jerky, directing Harry’s attention to the bulge in his jeans. Harry licks his lips, then looks up to see Neville’s gaze fastened on his mouth.

Smirking, Harry reaches out for Neville’s belt loops. “Couch,” he says, tugging on them. “Ah, ah,” he says when Neville leans down, getting a hand on Neville’s chest. “Couch.”

Neville’s pout makes Harry laugh. “Come on,” he says, giving a final tug on those jeans that do things to Harry. Glancing at them, Harry thinks he’ll enjoy taking them off. As good as they look on Neville, they look better off. Not that Harry plans to spend a lot of time looking at them.

Harry is rounding the edge of the couch when hands on his hips and Neville’s mouth behind his ear check his stride. Harry’s gasp turns into a groan as Neville nibbles, making sensation shoot down his body to his groin. His knees turn to water, sagging him into Neville who adjusts his grip without breaking from Harry’s ear.

“Nggh. Gah, Neville.” With a Herculean effort, Harry tears free from the pleasant tingles running through him. Neville reluctantly releases him, though he goes eagerly when Harry pushes him at the couch.

“Oof,” says Neville as he lands on the couch, laughing as he nearly falls off. Harry, about to follow, has a moment of thinking how bloody gorgeous Neville is flushed from laughter and sex. Then Harry kneels on the couch long enough for a soft press of lips, a swipe of his tongue, before straightening and planting his hands on his hips.

“All right, then,” Harry says, attempting to sound stern. “I think I’ve waited long enough. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“So romantic, Harry,” Neville says around the last of his laughter. “Don’t you know these things can’t be rushed?”

“You’re the one who started this.” Harry crosses his arms. “Not my fault if you can’t finish it.”

“Hey!” Neville lunges up, gets his arms around Harry’s waist. He mock-glares up at Harry as he says, “I’ll have you for that.”

“Sure,” Harry says, fighting against his grin. “Not until you strip.”

He raises a challenging eyebrow at Neville, who narrows his eyes. Then a slow smile comes across Neville’s face, and he lets go to trail his hands down his chest. Harry follows the progress of those hands, big and blunt-fingered, down over the stomach to the button of the jeans. The button pops open. The fingers stroke down the zipper, once, then slide it down slowly millimetre by millimetre. It seems to take forever. Millimetre by millimetre, the head of Neville’s cock emerges, then his shaft. Fingers disappear into the zipper, give a rub. Neville’s moan is echoed by Harry’s, though he realizes this only when Neville’s eyes open, blue ring around black, and the curve of his mouth turns up.

Now Neville’s hands go to his waistband, push down. When Neville’s hips rise, Harry is there to help slide the jeans off. The muscles of Neville’s legs under Harry’s knuckles are strong from hours of constant exertion in the garden, the runs in the morning Neville likes to take. Harry has a flash of what these legs feel like around his waist and can’t get the jeans off fast enough.

If Neville is handsome in day-to-day life outside of sex, and gorgeous when laughing, then when naked on the couch with dark, intense eyes, solid body, and hand on his cock pulling with slow rhythmic movements…Neville is mouth-watering.

“Your turn,” Neville says, low and heated.

Looking from Neville’s hand and cock to those eyes, Harry blinks slowly. Half of his brain is occupied with cataloguing the pull and twist of Neville’s hand, the shine of pre-cum at the head of his cock, the hitch in Neville’s breathing as Harry runs his hand up Neville’s thigh. Harry wants more of that hitching, wants to cover Neville’s open mouth and turn the hitch into gasps and moans.

He’s leaning over to accomplish this when he feels a touch on his hand over his cock. Looking down, he realizes that Neville is trying to push Harry’s hand away from Harry’s cock, though Harry doesn’t remember putting it there. The evidence is there in the damp spot of his pants over his cock, as Neville pulls down Harry’s zipper. Gasping, Harry shifts to give Neville more access. His head drops down as Neville teases at his cock through his pants, squeezing at the head, walking his fingers down Harry’s length.

Abruptly, Harry can’t take it anymore. He pulls away from the couch and fumbles at his trousers and pants, stepping out of them when they fall down around his ankles. Barely stopping to take off his glasses, he’s stretching out on top of Neville and _oh, Merlin_ that’s good. Neville, his skin, his cock, oh, _oh_ , it’s so good Harry thinks he might shoot right there. But no, he’s still thrusting, can’t stop, not with the pleasure rolling through him. Not with Neville’s hands finding his shoulders and tightening. Not with Neville’s legs coming up to frame Harry’s waist, squeezing with each thrust. It’s overwhelming, and Harry doesn’t want it to stop.

And Neville, oh, Neville. Neville is gasping, his head thrown back, the hickey bright red on his neck. Harry is drawn to that hickey, sucking at it, biting, losing his grip as Neville arches against him with a shout. Harry’s eyes roll back in his head at the new friction against his cock, and he bucks, bucks again, feels the tightening at the base of his back that heralds orgasm.

“Neville, I –” Harry feels like he’s climbing towards something, but can’t quite get there. Then Neville’s hand is on his cock – no, both of their cocks, and Harry’s shouting as he goes over.

He surfaces to the sensation of Neville rubbing his back. Realizing that his cheek is on Neville’s shoulder, he mumbles as he nuzzles farther into it. The rubbing pauses.

“Don’ st’p,” Harry says, pushing his back into Neville’s hand. Neville resumes the caress, places a kiss to the top of Harry’s head. Harry smiles.

They lay there like that, neither saying a word. The rubbing feels very nice, soothing with each pass. Harry feels his body unwinding, slowing down under the attention. It’s not often that Harry can relax like this, what with too many people, too many matters demanding his input now, now, now. This, right here, is just what he needs.

Harry lies there for a moment longer, enjoying the caress, then pushes up on his elbow. He means to say to Neville that they should get cleaned up and dressed for dinner. Instead he finds himself smiling at Neville, who is looking up at him with sleepy eyes.

“What?” Neville asks.

“Nothing,” Harry says, shaking his head. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”

Neville blinks up at him for a moment, then breaks into a sweet smile. Squeezing Harry around the waist, he says, “I’m lucky, too.”

Harry has to give Neville a kiss for that. “Come on,” he says, moving to sit up. “We should get ready to go down to dinner.”

“I’m not done snuggling yet,” Neville says.

Harry grins. “That’s what tonight’s for.” He waggles his eyebrows.

Guffawing, Neville says, “I’m holding you to that, then.”

“‘Course.”

As they struggle up from the couch to gather their clothes, Harry looks at Neville, the lines of him and the comfortable shape he has in Harry’s life, and knows he is very, very lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [hprarefest](http://hprarefest.livejournal.com/) 2012\. All your rare pair fixes in one place!


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